head combusts, pt. II.

do you get afraid that your words are drying up and that soon all you will be is heat and violence?

these are small and nothing but they were there:

[swim for the lightning bolt divining the light, the cannon shot cracking...]

[she felt the whole world move through her: the lady crying into her storefront, selling shit she doesn't believe in, the small bird trapped at the bottom of a subway station, its eyes holding simple unheard light, the ax wound of getting what you want, and only spitting out bones.]

[you breathed me in and waited (i had memories, or these thoughts, that your hands were crumbling toys, things i shouldn't remember here, but still i circle the buttons laid around you, with this smile that you found, and felt as warm newspaper clippings.)

i emptied my pockets (we always make sure that the puddles are held last, that they well, and fill from our good days, that chime as sea shells, you once scoured from loneliness, cold sweat of foam.)

and we both knew.]

[autumn fell and i just fled. and now i'm here, feeling something that must be like eating glass, or storing it in my head, heavy enough and that glint, and cement underneath my knuckles, these pavements i do not come back from. the alien triggers that used to come so easily, and now just gift boxes brimming with silence, spitting lockets—this should reflect noise!

(hello, i would like to get to know you.

hey, i guess, i will speak again soon.)

my tongue recycles my pulse.

and this colour—blue. do you feel like this sometimes? i have to know that you do. i think of glass and pavement and aliens. i feel them where my blood should beat. i can taste it where i keep my alphabet. (i can hear a blood nose.) i throw fast. i don't want to apologise. the problem with that is this madness and moving forwards into it and:

people: are you so fraudulent? are you so strange?

hope: but if you can feel this, too.

i had so many dreams and ideas and words, but none of it that comes in any shape i can name. there is blur, somewhere between—can you feel my fingers now? they have left me, and surely i would have left them with you. do i need them... or believe in colour?

if you think i am broken, that must seem apparent, but how i function, really. just i think too fast for my eyes to travel...]

[the past is so loud and you jam your skeletons in the lock.]